Rebel Waltz
by rebelxxwaltz
Summary: What kind of journey did Rupert Giles embark upon in the days after Eyghon that changed him from rebel into Watcher? A look into Giles' past and the origin of his feelings for Buffy. Chapter 6: Council induced visions, Randall, and a Stairway to Heaven.
1. Up In Heaven, Not Only Here

Hi Everyone! (waves)

I'm new to the BtVS fandom, and this is my first attempt at a fic in this category! Please be gentle with me. This story treads on a lot of theoretical ground, and I took numerous liberties. For anybody that's actually interested, I've taken the time to explain myself on many fronts over at my LiveJournal. There's a link to it in my profile! I don't want to take up space and word count here with an overly long author's note.

An apology goes out to any readers of my currently running stories that stumbled onto this by chance- especially the Azureshippers! I swear, I'll get to some updates soon now that this one is working its way out of my system. :)

Anyway…about this fic…

**xxxxxxxxxx**

**Disclaimer**: BtVS and its characters are not owned by me, and this fic is not written for profit of any kind. Same goes for any songs or lyrics mentioned within.**  
Pairing**: It's Buffy/Giles, boiled down to its purest form. Just give it some time to take off. And please don't flip at the slight hint of Giles/Olivia!**  
Spoilers**: Hmm… definitely for 'The Dark Age'. Indeterminate for really anything else.

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So we danced with a rifle, to the rhythm of the gun  
In a glade through the trees, I saw my only one  
Then the earth seemed to rise, hell hot as the sun  
The soldiers were dying, there was tune to the sighing  
The song was an old rebel one.

-_Rebel Waltz, _The Clash

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**Rebel Waltz: Chapter 1  
Up In Heaven (Not Only Here)**

_Camden Town, London, 18 January 1981_

Rupert Giles looked out of his open window into the cold and rainy streets below, green eyes unfocused and vaguely contemplative. The sidewalks were gray, washed with an unforgiving swirl of black and yellow and dull blue, an oil slick of puddles lit by flickering street lamps and heavily filtered moonlight. On these winter days, it seemed like darkness fell before you were halfway through with your afternoon tea. The nights were relentlessly long.

London.

The city was a beast, a damp and freezing monster. January was unkind, and Rupert very nearly resented the fact that he was at present sitting comfortably in a warm apartment; not particularly large or well appointed, but cozy. Even the word made him uncomfortable. The recent events of his life were such that he was unaccustomed to warmth and luxury. Perhaps that was why he was perched next to the window, almost ignoring his cigarette and silently absorbing the combination of sounds rising from the High Street on one side and his turntable on the other. The relative tranquility and order of his flat made him feel like a caged animal. The music helped a little; why was it that The Clash always seemed to fit his frame of mind so well lately? The _Sandinista!_ album had been released about a month ago, and had hardly left his record player since. It was almost eerie how his thoughts were mirrored back to him through the music. Right now it was _Up In Heaven (Not Only Here)_:

_This room is a cage it's like captivity  
How can anyone exist in such misery?_

He had been feeling this way quite a bit over the past few months. Perhaps not so much the misery part; he had become numb to that particular set of emotions some time ago. But the cage, that he understood. He often felt like the whole city was a cage, designed specially for him. He was held prisoner by his own thoughts and memories. The faces of his so-called friends flashed before his eyes; Thomas, Phillip, Deirdre, Ethan, Randall…

Randall, slumped over in a sickening boneless heap…

Sighing, Rupert rose abruptly, flicking the cigarette end out the window. He paced around the room, absently placing his right hand over the spot on his left arm where the Mark of Eyghon lay hidden beneath the sleeve of his sweater. Frowning deeply, he sauntered to the stereo and flipped the record. After Randall's death, he had disassociated himself with his circle of friends. It was a mutual break- none of them could bear to be in the same room with each other, crushed as they were by the weight of their guilt. All except for Ethan, anyway. Perhaps they all needed to get away from Ethan more than anything else. He continued to insist that Randall had died because he was weak, too weak to survive and thrive on the forbidden high of Eyghon's invasion.

The rest of them were all in agreement that they had effectively killed him. Ethan's denials only made matters worse. The music broke into this thoughts again:

_Somebody got murdered__  
His name cannot be found__  
A small stain on the pavement  
They'll scrub it off the ground..._

For weeks- or had it been months?- afterward, Rupert Giles roamed the city of London, avoiding his old haunts and aimlessly traversing the city. He drank in every dilapidated pub from Brixton to Finsbury Park and anywhere in between. Some days he rode the Underground trains for hours, despondent, staring blankly across the platforms as people on their way somewhere bustled to and fro. He slept in parks or squalid abandoned buildings. Occasionally he would take up with a woman for a few days, but he could never tolerate the human contact for long. There had been drugs once or twice, but for the most part he couldn't be bothered. None of them were potent enough to cut the pain or quell the magic withdrawal. All the while he was standing still, a twenty six year old ghost, stupefied and incapable of extracting himself from the vicious cycle he had landed in.

Then he had run into Archie.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

He had run into him quite literally, in fact. Rupert had been stumbling semi-drunk through Soho with his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket and bashed square into the man as they turned a corner headed in opposite directions. Despite his advance in age and a significant disadvantage in height, the older man had been the one to remain standing when Rupert collided with him. The solid white-haired Scotsman had frowned and crinkled his eyebrows thoughtfully while helping him to his feet.

"Aren't you the Giles lad? You look like all nine circles of hell at once, boy."

And that, basically, was how he had ended up here. Blind chance. Archibald Lassiter was an old acquaintance of his father, and had been one of the less irksome instructors Rupert had known as a young man when his father had insisted that he take training as a future Watcher. _Because it was his 'destiny'…_ It seemed so long ago now, it was like another universe. But Rupert had been desperate enough to grab the lifeline that Archie offered. First they had spent a number of hours in a nearby café. Rupert had told him nearly everything, including what had happened to Randall. All the while the man kept him supplied with tea and sandwiches, which he appeared to need in the worst way. Before Rupert knew what was happening, he was agreeing to meet Archie the following day at an address in Bloomsbury.

The strange part was, he hadn't even thought about not going.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

That day had been nearly a year ago. It had been amazingly easy to settle into the new routine. During the day Rupert worked at the British Museum, which was apparently a very common 'undercover' vocation for Council operatives. It wasn't that much of a stretch for him, anyway, with the battered pieces of half an Oxford history degree under his belt. He felt quite at ease with the work of cataloguing new acquisitions, and became very knowledgeable about the artifacts without much effort. The range of languages his father had insisted that he learn as a boy hadn't hurt, and Rupert had a funny feeling that the Museum might have even hired him outside of the Council's urging.

At night, he studied with Archie or did various jobs for the Council. Shadowy deliveries in bad parts of town, research, whatever gophering was required… oh, and had he mentioned the research? They were tasks that were typical of the treatment often foisted upon the most junior members of an organization. The small branch in Bloomsbury, near Russell Square, was an offshoot of the Council of Watchers' London headquarters in Knightsbridge. Its existence was a mercy to Rupert; he doubted that he would have been able to endure the pressure and politics of headquarters- at least, not yet. The atmosphere at the branch office was fairly relaxed. Archie and his team apparently specialized in the more covert, behind the scenes functions that the Council served. They were good at what they did, and were generally left more or less to themselves.

He sometimes got the distinct impression that Archie was shielding him, either from the Council's influence or their prying eyes. If so, he was grateful. The last thing he wanted to hear was any grand talk about duty or destiny, and he would be a fool to think that the name 'Giles' wasn't familiar enough to attract their interest. He just wanted to get on with his training, and not think about the future too much.

One thing Rupert hadn't been willing to do was to live at the lodgings provided at the branch, or even particularly nearby for that matter. Bloomsbury was upscale, architecturally attractive, the perfect picture of civic pride… it made his skin crawl. Perhaps it was the bit of 'Ripper' that was left in him, but the manicured lawns and neatly scrubbed stone facades struck him as false and artificial. And the people were even worse- with so many universities and cultural institutions nearby, the squares were overrun with intellectual snobs and pretentious academics. They made him remember quite a few reasons why he had left school and run away from his old life in the first place.

That was why he had taken the flat in Camden Town. The surrounding community had grown haphazardly out of a mixed industrial heritage, resulting in a varied population and a slightly gritty vibe. The winding and labyrinthine markets were colorful, and surprisingly good sources of authentic occult literature and paraphernalia, if you knew where to look. The people were similarly interesting. Hipsters, punks, dope fiends, recent immigrants, hustlers, black marketeers, skinheads, out of work actors, manual laborers, fortune tellers, and ordinary people just going about their business… Needless to say, it was also advantageous that his comings and goings at all hours were not viewed as unusual. Here, he was no more or less suspicious than anybody else.

He also liked the pubs, though he tried to stay out of them these days.

Perhaps his residing here was a way of keeping his distance. Rupert didn't think about it that way, but psychology was a funny thing. It took him the longer side of half an hour to walk from his flat to the British Museum, with the underground fairly convenient for the days when the rain came down too hard or he simply couldn't be bothered. Maybe the separation was something he needed, before charging headlong into a new life- or was he plummeting backwards into his old one? The confusion and the sense of transition were not lost on Rupert, and the aggressively changeable crowds along the Camden High Street fit his mood to a manic perfection.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Rupert returned to his perch at the window, watching the rain come down. Nights like this always brought memories to the forefront which, for him, hadn't been the best sensation in the recent past. Things were gradually getting better, though. He found himself thinking more about his childhood and the days since that fateful meeting with Archie than he did about the dark time in between. Not that he had forgotten; the mark was a constant reminder, and he thought about Randall every day. The caged feeling was there, indeed, but at least now there were _some_ good things about his life. The job at the Museum was alright, and he was remarkably at peace with his new association with the Watchers' Council. The partnership with Archie came with no obvious strings attached, and he didn't have to think about where it was leading.

All in all, the past year hadn't been bad. There were even, he would admit, some bright spots.

_Like Olivia…?_

A snort of laughter worked its way out of Rupert's throat. Well, that was an unexpected turn for his thoughts to take. He hadn't seen Olivia in several weeks, as she had apparently felt a spontaneous need to travel. "Got to see the world while I'm still young, haven't I," she had said. Many things about Olivia were spontaneous, and in a short six months' time their relationship had experienced more ups and downs than a yo-yo on methamphetamines. Right now she was probably somewhere in Germany. Or had she said she was thinking of trying Morocco? He found it hard to tell with Olivia sometimes whether she was serious about the things she said.

This trend had featured quite prominently in their relationship…

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Hmm… ;)

We will surely find out more about Giles and Olivia in the next chapter. If you want to hear some of my opinions on the matter, check out my fic notes over at my Live Journal! The link is in my profile.

I hope this small but concentrated tale will catch someone's attention. I've really been having fun writing it. If you have any feedback or comments, please drop me a review! I would love to see how I'm doing, since this is a scary new fandom for me!


	2. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Hi Everyone!

Here's the second chapter of this story. There will probably be four chapters in total. This one deals mainly with the relationship between Giles and Olivia. I know this is a touchy subject for those of us who ship Buffy/Giles. However, the way I see it, he is obviously quite fond of her and there has to be an explanation for that. I mean, give the guy a little credit. Surely he wouldn't remain friends with her for so long without a reason, and I don't think their relationship is based solely on sex. I think it's possible to have the best of both worlds- Giles and Olivia friendship as well as a big dose of Buffy/Giles love. I guess this is my attempt at tackling the rather sticky Olivia issue.

To clarify once and for all, however, and let me say this loudly: This is **not** a Giles/Olivia fic! It's B/G all the way!

Thanks to everyone who gave their feedback after the first chapter. I hope you guys will like the rest of the story.

**Disclaimer: **As stated in the first chapter, none of good stuff in here belongs to me- well, except for the storyline. Chapter title is from the Queen song _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_, which was released as a single in 1979.

**Rebel Waltz: Chapter 2  
Crazy Little Thing Called Love**

_Camden Town, London, May 1980_

They had met in a pub.

Yes, it was the hallmark of doomed relationships everywhere. Rupert found it doubtful that very many people in the world, when asked on their 25th wedding anniversary how they had met their spouse, would reply, "We met down the pub. I was completely pissed!". But that was alright, because he and Olivia didn't have _that_ kind of relationship. Even from that first night, their friendship- or whatever it was- had defied categorization.

One Saturday night, he had been drinking in one of the larger Camden pubs which happened to be attached to a lively nightclub venue. There was a show there that night; one of those bands from the two-tone ska craze that was so popular lately. Madness? The Specials? The Beat? Whatever. It wasn't something that appealed to Rupert. The songs all sounded boring and similar to him. Like they were taking the worst aspects of reggae and boiling them down into a concentrated formula- and doing it far too cheerfully. He had been absently drinking himself along toward numbness, ignoring the persistent beats which could be heard and felt through the walls separating the pub from the nightclub, until he noticed a halt to the music. He didn't much register the fact that the pub was starting to fill up with patrons flowing through the passageway that led to the nightclub until she casually insinuated herself between him and the wall and started angling for the bartender's attention.

Surprisingly, the first thing that caught Rupert's eye was not her height or her rather striking facial features. It was her shirt. A white t-shirt, with a phrase printed across the chest in bold black lettering:

**It may be that your entire****  
life is meant to serve as a  
WARNING for others**

It was the funniest thing Rupert had seen in awhile, and he felt through the haze of alcohol that it could easily apply to him. He was so engrossed in his contemplation of the rather intriguing shirt that he failed to realize that he appeared, to the casual observer, to be staring at her well-formed and extremely feminine chest.

Olivia was not a casual observer. Nor was she particularly shy. "Oi! My eyes are up here, sweetheart!"

Rupert's eyes shot up, slightly cloudy but suddenly alert, meeting her steady dark gaze. If he wasn't mistaken, there was just a hint of amusement peering out from beneath her raised eyebrow. Rupert wasn't an angel by any means, but it certainly wasn't in his nature to leer at women in an objectifying way- if nothing else, he still had _some_ manners. "I… forgive me. I wasn't… I mean, your shirt-"

Her bubbling laughter cut him off. She smiled widely at him with a row of straight and brilliant white teeth. "No need to get your knickers in a twist. Talk is cheap around here, so you can just apologize by buying me a drink."

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Right from the get-go they had found plenty of things to argue about. Their friendship had an adversarial tension, and it had originated from the first night they met. They had gone back to his flat after consuming several drinks each. They had sat on the floor in Rupert's living room and argued about the color of his curtains, about his record collection, about whether the Earth was round… well perhaps not that, but it had seemed like it to Rupert at the time. It might have been that Olivia just liked to be contrary, but he hadn't felt so engaged with another person in quite awhile. Possibly since he had first met Ethan. He had forgotten how good it could feel to have a conversation about something frivolous.

"So you don't like ska, but you like The Clash? Does anybody else here see a problem with that scenario?"

Olivia was dissecting his record collection, sitting on the floor and making three piles- records she liked, records she hated, and records she hadn't heard or was indifferent to. The seven inch single of Queen's _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ went into the 'hate' pile with a scowl. She was leaning against the couch with her legs stretched out, and was now brandishing a copy of The Clash's _London Calling_.

Rupert shook his head. "The Clash aren't a ska band."

"You _have_ listened to this album, right? Hello? What about 'Rudie Can't Fail'? Or 'Revolution Rock'? Does that ring any bells? Not to mention the Guns of bloody Brixton..."

"But that isn't all they are. They play a lot of different types of music. You can't just call them a ska band because they experiment with some related musical elements."

She sighed and reluctantly put the record on her 'like' pile. "Whatever. I'm right, you're wrong. I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree, hmm?"

Rupert gifted her with a small but genuine smile, and a teasing look in his eyes that said volumes about how strongly he felt he had just won the argument. Her answering glare slowly melted into a grin as he passed her the small bottle of Scotch they had been sharing.

That night, they each enjoyed the company of the other in an undemanding way. Around two o'clock in the morning, Rupert had decided to go to bed. Both he and his guest were tired and somewhat drunk, which could be a dangerous combination when a man and a woman were alone together. Things might have taken a turn for the interesting, but when Olivia had tried to kiss him she missed his mouth by several inches and proceeded to collapse on the couch in a fit of sleepy giggles. Rupert covered her with a blanket and stumbled to his bed laughing, really laughing, for the first time in months.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The next morning, sporting excruciating twin headaches, they had made a pact to drink less. That was when Rupert stopped frequenting the local pubs so much. Olivia was also constantly bugging him to quit smoking cigarettes, to 'drop that filthy habit' as she would say. Sometimes he wondered whether he kept smoking them now just to annoy her.

They found out things about each other. Olivia was twenty one and split her time between part-time studies and working in her father's shop. She did errands and made bicycle deliveries daily, but generally had the weekends free. She liked photography and Italian food. She discovered that Rupert was slightly pretentious about literature and such things despite his rebellious demeanor, he was picky about his tea, preferred rugby over football, and hated being photographed.

When Rupert had free time, the two of them would go for walks or find interesting restaurants to eat in. They talked about books, drank coffee or tea in the afternoons or on his lunch hour, browsed the markets on the weekend. Once in a great while if they were feeling extra lazy or it was raining too hard they would lie on the floor in his apartment, smoking marijuana and listening to Pink Floyd's _The Wall_.

In short, Rupert had become quite fond of her. There was a certain ease to their relationship, and she didn't put demands or expectations on him. There was sex as well, quite a bit really. Especially in the first month or two. But Olivia seemed to understand his need for a certain degree of emotional detachment. That, or she simply wasn't looking for romance. Rupert tried not to over think the situation. Why try to fix something if it isn't broken?

For a long time, the only difficult aspect to their relationship was Rupert's need to hide his double life from her. Olivia didn't seem to know anything about vampires or demons or the like, just like most people. And Rupert didn't see any reason to involve her. She already knew he was a bit unusual; if he started making comments about magic and rituals and undead overlords living in disused Underground stations, she might think he had flipped for good. Therefore, as far as Olivia was concerned, he worked at the Museum during the day and for a twenty four hour courier service by night.

He would occasionally slip and make a comment about the darkness in the world or how oblivious people were to the fact that there were bloodsucking fiends all around them, but he was able to successfully pass them off as somewhat radical social commentary. Strangely, she didn't seem to find the comments odd. Sometimes she even agreed with his hastily constructed explanations.

They got along swimmingly in this manner for quite some time. Everything was perfect, really… until she fell in love with him.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Camden Town, London, August 1980_

Maybe it was inevitable that things couldn't stay the way they were, and maybe Rupert had known it in the back of his mind from the moment they met. That hadn't made it any less of a shock, though, when she had declared her love for him. They had known each other for 3 months when it happened. He was fairly certain she hadn't planned to say anything to him, but they were walking along Regent's Canal one Sunday afternoon and it had kind of… slipped out.

It was one of those things that started with a phrase like 'that's one of the things I love most about you' or 'see, that's why I love you so much'. Rupert couldn't remember exactly how it had come out. It sounded innocent enough and probably would have gone unnoticed by both of them, if not for his reaction.

He had frozen up. His feet stopped moving, and he looked at her with a stunned expression on his face. Rupert's mouth moved as though trying to form words, but his brain couldn't calculate what to say. He wasn't ready to have this conversation, but his choice in the matter had just been taken away by her words and his obviously negative response. She tried to backpedal at first and write it off as something inconsequential. The more aghast he looked, however, the more Olivia found herself unwilling to let the matter drop. In fact, she was getting a little angry. Her words were fierce, but softly spoken.

"Come on, Rupert. Is it really so terrible for me to be in love with you? Is it such a surprise?"

He looked at the ground, into the murky gray waters of the canal, at anything but her face. He shook his head slowly, willing the confusion to shake itself away. "You aren't in love with me, Liv. You don't even know me. Not really." He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He could feel the change in her posture without even looking. When she spoke again, she was using the hands-on-hips voice that came into play only when something really rankled her. "I don't _know_ you? What have we been doing these past months then, Rupert? If it had just been sex all the time I could understand, but… God, do you not care about me at all?"

She had stepped closer to him, and he flinched when he felt her hand touch his face. She finally looked into the swimming green of his eyes, finding layers of pain there that would take ages to peel back. She knew there were things in his past that he wouldn't, couldn't tell her. He whispered, "You know that isn't what I meant."

Olivia pressed her forehead against his, trying desperately to convey the depth of her emotion. "So let me love you, Rupert. I can see you're not ready, but I can wait…I can help you..."

She put one hand over his heart and softly brushed the fingers of the other across his lips. "Just… won't you just let me in?"

Rupert stood still for a long moment, breathing unevenly. Slowly he took both her hands in his and held them lightly in between their bodies, proceeding to lower them to her sides and gently release them. "I… I'm sorry, Olivia. I can't do this. I can't."

Turning away from her, he screwed his eyes shut and hugged himself as though bracing for an impact. He was waiting for her to attack him, either physically or with words. But the blows never came, and when he finally turned around he could just barely see her figure retreating in the distance. She didn't look back, and Rupert assumed he would probably never see her again.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Camden Town, London, September 1980_

He was fairly sure his suspicions were proven correct when he didn't see or hear anything from Olivia for a few weeks. He missed her, but he knew he didn't really have a right to be upset. He understood why she couldn't be around him. He felt lonely sometimes without her to talk to, but there was nothing he could do to change the way things were. Rupert wasn't emotionally equipped to deal with something like this when he could barely look after his own mental well-being half the time. After her declaration, he had thrown himself even more into his training with Archie. Days melted into weeks, and before he knew it a month had gone by.

One Saturday afternoon in early September found Rupert in his flat making a pot of tea and wondering what to do with himself for the rest of the day. He was hungry, but didn't really feel like going out. He was restless, but couldn't think of anything compelling to fill the time. He was startled out of his doleful thoughts by a knock at the door. His eyebrows knit in confusion as he strode across the room to answer it, pushing one sleeve of his oxford shirt up over his elbow. He certainly wasn't expecting any visitors. He pulled the door open without looking first to see who it was.

Olivia was standing there, with a bag of Indian takeout in each hand.

She cleared her throat and didn't _quite_ meet his eyes. "I know how bad you are at feeding yourself on Saturdays sometimes. I brought you the Vindaloo, because I know you think Chicken Korma is shit."

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Rupert felt the understanding stretch between them like a sturdy rope connecting ship to shore. He invited her in.

"So... did you miss me, then?" She asked.

Rupert smiled.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Well, that's it for this installment. I feel a little bad for Olivia, but romance just isn't in the cards for her and Giles. Don't worry, I'll start tackling the B/G parts of the story in the next chapter. I just felt like some development and exposition was necessary to kind of show what Giles is going through at this point in his life. Stick with me here and I promise it's going to get good!

Reviews are cherished and appreciated, including critical ones as long as they are constructive! I would love to hear from anyone who is enjoying this story. I'm definitely having a lot of fun writing it! ;)


	3. That's Entertainment

Hello!

Here's the next chapter of **Rebel Waltz**! I just want to say thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far- the feedback is very gratifying and motivational! The story is moving along a little bit here, and there's probably either two or three chapters left at this point. This chapter starts to hit on some of the Buffy/Giles elements I promised. There's also a little bit of Ethan in here, for which we can all thank _**Rippertish**_ - I was reading something over for her earlier today and for some reason it gave me the Ethan bug. ;)

**Disclaimer: **Still in effect. Haven't inherited any magical Buffy-owning powers in the past week or two. _That's Entertainment_ is a song by The Jam, from the album 'Sound Affects' released in November 1980.

**Rebel Waltz  
Chapter 3: That's Entertainment**

_London and surrounding areas, September 1980_

Archie was a collector, in many ways. He could be obsessively single minded about certain luxuries, his attention to detail and relentless interest resulting in some spectacular acquisitions. Rare books, fine cigars, single-malts that were to die for, and a stunning collection of British motorcycles which spanned over five decades. All of these were things that Rupert was learning to appreciate. Well, maybe not so much the cigars. They reminded him too much of his father. The motorcycles, however, had come to be of particular interest to him.

He remembered the first time that Archie had allowed him to ride one of the classic motorbikes. He wasn't allowed to touch anything from a decade earlier than the 1950's, but there were still some fine examples. The rush of the wind in his ears as he rocketed through the countryside had drowned out every shred of anguish and apprehension that lingered at the edge of Rupert's mind, replacing it with simple exhilaration and a feeling of connection to the elements around him. Ever since that day, riding the motorcycles had served as a special form of therapy for the young Giles. Whenever the walls were closing in on him or his past was weighing on his mind, he would ask Archie if he could take out one of the bikes.

On this occasion he found himself zooming down the motorway on a 1959 Triumph _Bonneville_, watching the familiar sights of London give way to the sprawl of the urban industrial outskirts and gradually fading into countryside. In spite of the fact that helmets were mandated by law, Rupert preferred riding without one. It wasn't that he liked the danger, or had a death wish, or wanted to be rebellious- it was simply because of the feeling of absolute freedom it brought to the experience. He wore an old pair of RAF sunglasses to protect his eyes. It was unseasonably warm for the middle of September; he was dressed in jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a slightly weathered pair of Doctor Martens boots.

Winding his way into open countryside, Rupert let the environment surround him. The resistance of the air against his body made the wind itself feel so tangible you could almost reach out and grab it. The earth and the sky were close at hand, and he could smell the grass and the dirt and the crispness of last night's rain. The sensation of awareness that Rupert had while riding a motorbike was the closest thing he knew to the feeling of magic coursing through his veins, but without the mind crippling side effects. Speeding down country lanes with the sun on his face, his mind was totally clear. And for that moment, he really _was_ free- free of his past, of his worries for the future, free from everyday concerns.

When he returned to London that day, smiling somewhat grimly into the setting sun as he rode along, that was when he knew that he could do it. That he had survived the terrors of his past, and there would be more to his life. And when he returned the keys to Archie, the older man simply gave him a knowing look and a tumbler of Scotch, silently noting the aura of renewal with a raised eyebrow.

"Rupert, the next round of Council exams are coming up end of next month. Don't you think it's about time you sat the entrance test?"

The younger man's green eyes widened, suddenly realizing what the Scotch was for. He took a larger than average gulp, considering his mentor's question. The dreaded Council entrance exam, if passed, conferred official status as a Watcher. He hadn't thought about it more than once or twice in the eight months since he had joined up with Archie, hadn't even known if that was what he wanted. Therefore, Rupert was especially surprised at the lack of dread he felt as he mulled over the idea. Which could only mean one thing…

He was ready.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_London, Spring/Autumn/Winter 1980_

He was sometimes haunted at night by dreams of a life that didn't seem to be _quite_ his own. He felt as himself, but the faces and places were not familiar. There was always a sense of urgency, of impending threat, and he would wake in a cold sweat with adrenaline pumping through his veins. The first dream had come seemingly out of nowhere in the early spring, taking Rupert by surprise with its intensity and the way the images twisted something down deep in his core.

The dreams were usually of himself and three others, a boy and two girls. He felt as though he should know them, but when he woke he could never recall their names or the exact details of their faces. The four of them together were like Charlie's Angels, or some type of collect-them-all action set. He himself was the brunette of the group, whereas the boy had even darker hair than himself. One of the girls was a redhead, and the other a petite blonde. They always seemed to be fighting against some evil, with the fierce little blonde at the center of it all.

She was the one who affected Rupert the most. The things that he felt toward her in the dreams were obviously strong, but his emotions seemed confused. In his waking hours after the relatively rare dream occurrences, he wondered what it all meant. The images he recalled made him quite certain that this young blonde girl from his dreams was in fact the Slayer. But what he was seeing couldn't possibly be real- the active Slayer was said to be Japanese, and was by all accounts currently operating in Moscow.

Rupert worried a bit about the ramifications of what was going on in his subconscious. Fearful even of Archie's reaction, he told no one about the dreams. Surely the Council would think him possessed, demented, or possibly conclude that he was having prophecy dreams. Now there was a thought- what if the things he was seeing were the future- _his_ future? This thought would strike him most often just after waking, as his lungs gasped for air and he struggled to regain his foothold in reality.

He tried to let the events of his daily life wipe away the thrilling intoxication of those potent dreams, but could never quite manage to erase the impressions of the girl from his mind- or forget the tantalizing terror that clenched his guts as they faced the myriad nightmare dangers together, always together…

On one or two occasions, the dreams became blatantly erotic. The other two companions would fade away, leaving only her. The time and place were outside of his knowledge, the point in their relationship indeterminate. All he could tell was that one minute they would be talking normally- just like any other day- and the next they would be devouring each other hungrily, lips and tongues melting desperately against each other and hands struggling aggressively for purchase on bare skin. When he awakened he could still feel the silk of her golden hair slipping between his fingers, the ghost of her lips burning a lingering trail along his neck and down his chest.

The images were burnt onto the back of Rupert's eyelids, just waiting to be replayed whenever he shut his eyes. And he knew with a frightful certainty that if he ever actually met her, he would be _lost_.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Hackney, London, 31 October 1980_

It was bound to happen eventually. The fact that it was Halloween was oddly appropriate, but not particularly significant. In actuality, Rupert was surprised it had been _this_ long. Some people, after all, have a way of turning up like a bad penny. Ethan Rayne was about the worst sort of penny imaginable…

Still, the lack of surprise didn't remove the sting from the encounter.

There had, apparently, been an unusual number of magical incidents in the vicinity of Hackney Central over the past several weeks. Unusual physical manifestations, mysterious blue fires, and a spike in the rate of hospitalization due to psychological trauma. This combination of circumstances certainly suggested a magical catalyst of some sort, and the Council had decided to investigate discreetly. Little did Rupert realize how thoroughly he would rue the day he agreed to take on the assignment, which was meant to consist of simple reconnaissance. Unfortunately for Rupert, things went from 'observe and report' to 'oh bollocks' in about three seconds flat.

He could sense the magic in the area. It was a prickly presence, dark and familiar. Rupert didn't realize just _how_ familiar until he saw the unearthly glow of two dark eyeballs glinting out at him from the recesses of the alleyway. He watched, spellbound, as the wraithlike figure approached. It floated towards him, pushing smoothly away from the dingy alley wall and stepping partially into the reflected light of the street lamp. Face half in shadow, the apparition smirked. "Hello, Ripper."

Rupert said nothing, narrowing his eyes and taking an unconsciously defensive stance. Ethan stepped more fully into the light. He fairly reeked of dark magic. Blood, smoke, pungent herbs, and alcohol. The dark circles under his eyes were a sad mockery of the nasty smile he wore. "What's the matter, mate? Not happy to see me?"

"Ethan. What are you doing here?" Rupert crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his former friend with cold suspicion.

A nasty chuckle erupted from Ethan's throat. "I should think that would be obvious to you of all people, Ripper. After all, why else would _you_ be here? Unless…" The dark haired sorcerer circled Rupert warily, skulking like a cat and studying him with a piercing intensity. "Jesus, Rupert. Don't tell me you've actually gone _back_ to them!"

In a movement that was surprisingly swift, Ethan found himself pinned up against the side of the building with Rupert's forearm pressed across his throat. "Whatever you're up to, Ethan, it stops here and it stops now. I'm not going to say it twice. You have no right to use people's minds as your playthings."

The shorter man gulped for air, still smiling defiantly. "Why not? After all, that's entertainment. Fun is fun. You used to understand that."

Rupert ground Ethan into the wall one more time before pushing away from him, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop limply to his side. "Because it's _wrong_, Ethan. Just as wrong as what we did to Randall..."

Ethan interrupted. "You have, haven't you? I can't believe it. You're back with the Council, and you think _I'm_ bad? They'll chew you up and spit you out, mate. They'll use you and they'll break you. I can't wait for the day when you come crawling back to me just begging for a little taste of magic to help put you back together again-"

A small noise erupted from Ethan as Rupert's fist connected with his jaw.

"That's never going to happen. Now clear out before I decide to send a field team over here. If I hear of any more unusual activity in this area, Ethan, I won't hesitate to do so."

Holding his jaw with one hand, Ethan Rayne braced himself against the alleyway wall with the other. "Ripper, mate, take my advice and get out while you can. I've looked into your future, remember? One of the many spells you didn't want me to do? That way lies the path of pain. As your friend, I really must protest-"

Rupert spun around, bringing his face close and looking into Ethan's power-drunk eyes. "You are _not_ my friend." He held his gaze for a few moments before spinning on his heel and walking rapidly away from the scene.

Smirking somewhat brokenly due to his rather sore jaw, Ethan Rayne watched his one-time friend's retreating form, eyes boring into Rupert's back as if trying to burn a message there. He spoke to the empty air. "You'll be sorry, old boy. If you thought I could destroy you, just wait until you meet _her_…"

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Wow, good day for Giles, huh? He got to punch Ethan _and_ kiss Buffy in this chapter, even though that was only a dream… right? Hmm, I wonder! That would be telling, though, wouldn't it? Please review and let me know what you think, or if you have any theories about what else is going to happen! :)


	4. Comfortably Numb

Hi everybody! Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter. I know it went a little long without an update, but I went through some pretty heavy duty life stuff during the month of August. That, and (in related news) the annoying tendency of life to imitate art, is what caused the delay. Therefore, onward! I will leave a longer author's note at the bottom with some informational stuff about this chapter for those who are interested.

**Rating Note: **I have raised the rating of this story to **M** due to somewhat serious subject matter and a brief smutty passage in the middle of this chapter. ;)**  
Disclaimer: **The previous disclaimers concerning my non-ownership of BtVS still apply. The title of this chapter is taken from the Pink Floyd song _Comfortably Numb, _released on the album 'The Wall' in 1979.**  
Special Thanks: **to **Rippertish** for listening to my ramblings, putting up with my seeming inability to beta read in a timely manner, and giving support and friendship during what has been a difficult time. Thanks! Also, a shout out to **The Ashes Fan** for reviewing earlier today and giving me the extra push I needed to get this done!

**xxxxxxxxxx**

**Rebel Waltz  
Chapter 4: Comfortably Numb**

_London and the West Country, 8 November 1980_

The train ride from London to Bath was shorter than Rupert had remembered.

Either that, or he was secretly willing it not to end. The gloom outside the window made it look for all the world like nine o'clock at night instead of nine o'clock in the morning, and a quarreling cocktail of guilt and grief was twisting Rupert's mercifully empty stomach into knots. He wasn't ready for this journey to be over. Not when he contemplated the destination. Rupert was headed back to the Giles family estate, to attend his father's funeral. He hadn't spoken to his father in five years, and now that he was gone he would never have the chance again. Not that he had any idea what he might have said if the opportunity had arisen…

The feelings of guilt were somewhat surprising, all things considered. Rupert leaned his forehead against the window, staring blankly at the point on the horizon where the steely gray of the sky met the lush green of the surrounding plain. Thoughts of his childhood overwhelmed him.

From a young age, he had always looked up to his father and wanted to please him. The elder Giles was often away from home on what Rupert would later learn was Council business. The rarity of quality time made the son even more eager to garner approval. Young Rupert attacked his studies with a single-minded determination, willingly assented to whatever suggestions his father made concerning his education and any extracurricular activities. This he did in hopes that he might receive more than than an absent pat on the shoulder or wave of the hand, pleased but dismissive.

At the age of ten, Giles Senior had taken his son on a rather lengthy walk and, with detachment and critical precision, explained the details of the boy's destiny as a Watcher. Rupert smiled bitterly as he recalled the conversation, remembering how his younger self had assumed that, finally, he had the connection he had been wishing for. That this changed things and surely, now, he and his father would grow closer.

His young mind had hardly been able to encompass all the knowledge that was imparted to him that day. Vampires and demons walked among us, there was true evil in the world, Hell was a real place, and he would be charged with the responsibility of helping to guard the world from these forces. The third generation of the Giles family to be called. Watchers and the Slayer. Duty and destiny. They swirled through Rupert's consciousness, evicting boyhood fancies of knights and dragons, overtaking with ease every heroic fighter pilot dream his imagination had ever produced. He remembered being confused for weeks. Vampires were real, but what about witches, wizards, leprechauns, werewolves, gorgons, faeries… where did mythology end and reality begin?

So many questions, but they weren't answered by his father. There were a succession of tutors from that point forward, and they had little tolerance for whimsy. The elder Giles took a keen interest in Rupert's training, but seemed to grow even less involved with the boy himself. Years went by, and the boy grew. The boy who so craved his father's approval vanished slowly, giving way at first to a withdrawn and contemplative adolescent.

Rupert was thirteen when he first expressed ambivalence toward his training, telling his father that he didn't understand why it was so important that he learn Gaelic, anyway. That was the first time he had seen his father angry. He was so spellbound by the experience of being yelled at that he hardly heard the lecture. The intensity with which his father was focused on him during the tirade was not lost on Rupert. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, something awakened. Anger was a form of attention and, suddenly, an exceptionally intelligent and slightly insecure young man knew just how to get his father to notice him.

Perhaps at that moment, Ripper was born. Then again, maybe not. He hadn't come by the nickname until his London days, but all the ingredients were assembled gradually from that point forward and waited just beneath the surface to be shaken up into the blazing Molotov cocktail that was Rupert Giles at age twenty-one.

Rupert was startled out of his slightly disagreeable reverie as the train came to a halt at Bath Spa Station. His last errant thought while he disembarked had him wondering who it had been, ultimately, that had done the shaking- his father and Ethan Rayne were both prime candidates… or else Rupert had done it to himself. Perhaps it was academic. Wiping the thoughts from his mind, Rupert allowed the driver to stow his suitcase in the boot of the car that had been sent for him. Settling into the back seat and straightening his tie, the first he had worn in five years, he began the final leg of the journey and mentally prepared himself to see his father laid to rest that very afternoon.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Giles Family Estate, Somerset, 8 - 9 November 1980_

He dreamt of her that night, and even in his dreams there was death. He felt her pain and held her as she cried, saw flashes of her dying and of the deaths of others. But in his arms she was rebirth, vitality, life. Reality had no meaning and his subconscious plowed its own dangerous path through the agony of her mourning. Her face was turned up to his, despair in her eyes and a feather-light tremble of her lips against his own. He kissed her forcefully, pressing her against the wall and using his body to drive out the suffering. His hands roamed everywhere, aching to purify and sweep away the feelings of grief.

She clutched at him like he was her life raft, ripping his shirt in half in her savage attempt to force him closer. At the moment when she ground herself against him, moaning with her lips against his ear and her legs latched in a vise-like grip about his hips, he knew that his need for absolution was the same as hers. Perhaps if they could find a way to crawl inside each other, the ache would go away. He would start by burying himself in her tight exquisite heat as deep and hard as he could go, rocking his body against hers like a ship against the crashing waves of a turbulent sea. He could take her there, push her over the edge until she screamed his name. And he would follow, the two collapsing into a breathless and tangled mass of grasping limbs on the ground, fused together in transcendent release…

Waking in a disoriented panic, Rupert gasped sharply. He could nearly taste her lips, her golden skin, her _name_ on the tip of his tongue. He sat up in the bed, here in the room that had been his as a child, wondering (not for the first time) if he might just be losing his mind.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Giles Family Estate, Somerset, 9 November 1980_

In the morning, Rupert's mother gave him a parcel and an envelope sealed with a wax stamp and addressed to him in his father's meticulous script. He frowned slightly, setting aside his cup of tea and turning his attention first to the envelope. Upon opening it, he found a letter and a small object. He began to read the neatly composed letter, dated just two weeks prior, with some trepidation:

_Rupert,_

_If you are reading this, it means that I have met with my end at last. I know it cannot be far off now. There are many things that I wish I could have said to you these past five years, but they hardly seem to matter now. I have heard from Archibald that you have resumed your training. I am glad to hear it, and I have no doubt in my mind that you will prove far more than exemplary in your calling. This is all that I had hoped for you. _

_When you left Oxford after our final argument and disappeared I thought you were lost to us for good, and I naturally blamed myself. I know that I was not a particularly affectionate parent. I don't expect you to understand this, but you deserve to know it. I kept you at arm's length out of fear more than anything else. When your grandmother Edna was killed, her body left broken and bloody for her loved ones to find, I swore that I would never allow such anguish to touch my own children. In my effort to harden you, I managed only to turn you against me completely. I failed you in so many ways._

_Now that I am gone, such threats and self-imposed restrictions no longer exist. I am free to tell you, Rupert, that I have always been proud of you. Your mind was like a steel trap from the time you were a small boy and I greatly admired your determination. I pushed you hard in your training because I knew you had the potential to be great, to surpass us all. I know now that my attempts to protect you were flawed, and that my own weakness was responsible for our estrangement. If ever you are blessed with a son of your own, I hope you will not make my mistakes. I wish more than anything that I could have put aside my fear and known you better._

_With my heartfelt apology, I hope that you will accept this ring. It belonged many years ago to your grandmother's mentor, and apparently boasts some untold protective qualities. I realize that it isn't much to look at, but it is well-made. The Onyx will help you to master your own fate and release you from the confusion of the past, if you believe in that sort of thing. Your grandmother did, and insisted that the ring endows the wearer with vigor, steadfastness, courage, tenacity, and self-control. If what Archie tells me is true, you already possess these and many other fine qualities. I hope you will forgive me and wear it, as I have, always. _

_Yours,  
Gregory Giles_

Rupert was still for several moments before letting the ring drop out of the envelope and into his hand. It was heavier than it looked, well made indeed. He turned it over between his thumb and forefinger, examining it closely. Rupert's mother watched him silently from across the room, holding her breath. Abruptly he rose, grabbing his black wool coat from its hook by the door. He folded the envelope, ring still inside, and stuffed it in his pocket. With a nod to his mother, he strode out the back door and went looking for a car.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, 9 November 1980_

After half an hour's drive and a bit more than that of brisk walking, Rupert found himself at the top of Glastonbury Tor. The sky was cloudy and a cold wind whipped across the terraced hill, whistling its way mournfully through the stony and roofless ruin of St. Michael's Tower. This was the place where, sixteen years ago, Rupert's father had explained what it meant to be called as a Watcher.

This place, his father had told him, was the entrance to a Hellmouth in an age long gone by. Now, as with many centers of mystical convergence, a certain thinness existed here between this world and the land of the dead. The words of his father's letter had drawn him here. That memory from his childhood and the strong presence of afterlife that existed in this place made Rupert feel closer to his father than he had at possibly any time in his life.

The words his father had left him served to amplify those feelings and imbue him with a strange feeling of peace. He had come full circle. A journey that began here all those years ago was at an end, and a new one would have to begin. The intervening years flashed through his mind like a rapid fire slide show, randomly juxtaposed events finally crystallizing into meaning. He felt focused, fortified. Grounded, even at such a height.

Standing alone at the apex of the Tor with the tails of his heavy coat flapping in the icy wind, Rupert retrieved his father's ring from the envelope in his pocket. Looking out across the lonely and distant green expanse, he slipped the ring onto his left pinky finger and let the silent tears roll down his face.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
xxxxxxxxxx**

Wow, I hope that wasn't too depressing! My own feelings may have influenced it somewhat. As I may have (very vaguely) alluded to in my note at the top, my own father passed away recently after a short and sudden illness. This chapter was planned before he even got sick, but I couldn't bring myself to write it while he was ill. I will miss him a great deal, though I fortunately didn't share any of Rupert's experiences of separation or bitterness- I just wish we had talked more, spent more time together, the same things people always wish for when they lose someone they love. Writing this and sharing it means a lot to me within the framework of my recent experiences, so I hope it turned out okay.

Information about Rupert's family was basically made up by me. I couldn't find any facts that were particularly concrete other than his grandmother's name. In the series Giles indicates a connection to Bath, so I extrapolated that his family might be from that general area. I've traveled around there a little bit. I stuck him up on the top of Glastonbury Tor partly because I like the imagery, partly because I think that place is really interesting and the Tor (with all its historical and mythological connotations) on a cloudy day seemed to fit the tone of the story rather well.

I don't know if the ring we always see Giles wearing is set with an Onyx or not. I went through a LOT of screen shots on my hard drive trying to get a good look at it, with varying degrees of success (otherwise known as SCREAMING FRUSTRATION). We will therefore, for the sake of this story, assume that it is Onyx. I researched gemstone meanings on the internet (hahaha yes, really) to come by the information I gave in Giles Senior's letter.

Speaking of Giles Senior, I made up his name. I couldn't find a source anywhere that actually named him, so I did what any author would- went to a baby name website and picked it out by meaning. Gregory apparently means 'Watchful One'. And hey, at least it sounds better than Ezra or Herbert. :P

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Please drop me a review and let me know what you think!


	5. Carol of the Bells

Hi everyone! Sorry it took so long to update this. I got distracted with **Brits Do It Better** and a series of real life things. Hopefully it will have been worth the wait, though. I came up with some pretty cool ideas for this story in the meantime (at least, I think they are good)!

This chapter took on a decidedly Christmas-y feel, but not particularly cheery in the end. It was written with inspiration from a strange combination of the song _Transmission_ by Joy Division (released as a single in November 1979) and _Carol of the Bells_, the Christmas carol from which this chapter gets its name. The subject matter gets a little dark, dealing with some unpleasantness from the bad old 'Ripper' days. As usual, I'll include some more notes at the end of the chapter for anyone who is interested in knowing more!

**Rebel Waltz  
Chapter 5: Carol of the Bells**

_Camden Town, London, 24 December 1980_

Christmas.

It wasn't really something Rupert had ever celebrated. His parents hadn't been religious, despite the large number of crosses he remembered seeing 'round the house as a boy. Before age ten he often wondered what they were actually for. Further proof, he supposed, that in this world appearances could be very deceiving. Christmas was a decidedly secular affair; no trips to midnight mass or nativity scenes on the mantlepiece. There had always been a Christmas tree and the Giles family did engage in gift giving, if rather perfunctorily. His father was usually off on business, Christmas being just another day and all, but there would be a steady stream of relatives in and out of the house throughout the week. It had never been something that felt magical, though, even when Rupert was a young boy.

He had always wondered about the cheer of the holiday season, had been almost envious of the people singing carols and leaving cookies for Father Christmas. He was fascinated by their oblivious naiveté. It seemed to Rupert like a microcosm of his entire relationship with the human race; they all went innocently about their everyday business without a single errant thought spared for the unknown darkness around them, while Rupert and those like him scoured the shadows to maintain the cheerful illusion. When people started spouting off about 'Christmas spirit', drinking eggnog, going to parties, sending cards… well, it just served to magnify the dichotomy.

Rupert shook his head, sitting rather stiffly on the couch in his flat. He didn't understand it, he really didn't. It was all so…

"Perk up, Rupert, it's time for the Christmas toast!"

…unbelievable.

Letting his eyes slide to his left, he observed Olivia. She had a length of garland wrapped around her neck like a scarf. She was wearing a tight red sweater with white fur trim. Her glass of Scotch was held aloft. His gaze then snapped to the right as another voice joined the chorus.

"That's right, old boy! No grim faces allowed on Christmas Eve!" Archibald Lassiter was wearing a red and green plaid tie and a Santa hat. His Scotch sloshed back and forth in his glass as it clanked against Olivia's.

This impromptu Christmas celebration had been a total accident. Archie had dropped by to give Rupert his Christmas gift, and his visit had overlapped with that of Olivia. The two had fallen to chatting, having never met before, and had soon talked each other into such a festive mood that Rupert suddenly found himself as a host for their party. Each of the guests had exchanged gifts with Rupert. Olivia had given him a copy of the new Clash album, _Sandinista!_ which had come out just a couple weeks prior. Archie had given him the very magnanimous present of a set of twenty leather-bound journals, a traditional gift for a newly-minted Watcher. The two men had passed the gift off to Olivia, who knew nothing of Rupert's secret demon-fighting life, as something useful for cataloging artifacts at the museum. She had commented that by the time Rupert filled all the books with catalogued items, he would likely be a museum piece himself. Archie's booming laughter had echoed off the walls in response to her teasing remark.

On the coffee table there was a small pine tree, of the Charlie Brown variety, suffering under the weight of a few hastily assembled decorations. And there was even, Rupert dazedly realized, a Christmas album spinning merrily on the record player. He felt a glass being pushed into his hand and his back being patted rather insistently by Olivia. "Come on Rupert, bottoms up. We'll get a Christmas smile out of you yet."

Absently, he sipped the Scotch. Looking back and forth between his two friends, the people who had been most important to him in this rather difficult year of his life, Rupert felt a sensation akin to panic. The warmth and comfort were like a balm to his soul, but his reason rioted against the happy feelings. Life was so different now; he had passed the Council exam, made peace with his father, really gotten his life back together. But still, he was haunted by memories.

Rupert's last Christmas had been one he would not soon forget. Everything in this room reminded him, from the garland around Olivia's neck to the deceptively somber notes of _Carol of the Bells_ drifting through the flat. As different as the scene was, the memories flashed violently as each recollection was triggered. Regardless of whether he spent his Christmas deliberating over people's careless holiday enjoyment or if he gave in and let his friends drag him into the spirit, one fact would always remain.

Christmas would always live foremost in Rupert's mind as a truly terrible day- the day that Randall died.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Whitechapel, London, 24 December 1979_

They had taken the flat in Whitechapel almost two years ago, at Ethan's insistence. The area was run down, but the rents were cheap and the apartment was a decent size… which was a good thing, considering the activities that went on there. Sometimes it was more like a bordello, a squat, a magical crack house than just a plain old flat; rarely would Rupert ever choose to think of it as a 'home'. Ethan had wanted to live in Whitechapel not only because of the low rents and prominence of the unsavory type of characters (magical or not) he preferred to keep company with, but because of the deeply entrenched lore surrounding its most famous inhabitant- notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper.

The Ripper was of special interest to those like Rupert and Ethan who were in the know concerning matters such as magic, demons, vampires and the like. The Victorian era killer's apparent methods and habits seemed merely gruesome and perplexingly violent to the general public, frightening and nightmarish. Rupert and Ethan, however, could spend hours debating whether Jack the Ripper had been just a simple vampire or if he were perhaps a dark warlock whose killings had deeper ritual implications. The throat slashing, Rupert thought, was a dead giveaway. Obviously he was a vampire, and the Metropolitan Police had worked with the Council to cover the fact up and make him look like a common killer with a penchant for cutting throats. Ethan wasn't so convinced. The eviscerations and removal of organs, he argued, were indicative of the performance of dangerous black rites.

Ethan would give a nasty chuckle sometimes, saying that Rupert's decision to leave the Council and spend his time practicing dark magics was like poetic justice- he had willingly turned himself into the thing the Council feared and hated the most. A renegade sorcerer, using his knowledge and talent for magic and the occult to bend the universe toward him with little regard for the natural balance of power or the delicate secrecy he had been charged to protect. It was a rebellion most complete, Ethan said, like the angelic revolt of Lucifer as he fell screaming into the depths of hell.

That was how he came to be known as 'Ripper'. Ethan had started referring to him as such in jest, and the name had stuck. He didn't need to kill to feel deserving of the designation. He had fear, power, and the dark thrill of demonic knowledge. Rupert was so high on adrenaline and black magic most of the time, especially since they had started summoning Eyghon, that he felt like he could control the universe. The times when Rupert was sensible or aware of the consequences catalyzed by his actions had become few and far between, and when those times came he was usually in so much pain from magic withdrawal or so exhausted from days of magically induced sleep and/or sleeplessness that he didn't have the energy to care.

Rupert's vision was swimming pleasantly as he awakened, light bending through the crackling haze of magic in the room. The gaudy Christmas lights and tinsel that Deirdre had strewn all around the flat swirled before his eyelids, pulsing and twinkling as he rode the aftermath of Eyghon's possession. Slowly, the laughter of the room's inhabitants began to filter back into his perception. He eyed them silently. There was Ethan, smoking a joint and carefully bundling up some herbs for the next possession ritual. Deirdre was flirting with Thomas, pulling him toward her with a length of garland she had draped around his neck. Everyone in the room, including Thomas, knew that she was just trying to make Ethan jealous. It never worked, but she certainly made a good try of it. Philip and Randall were arguing about the relative merits of Motörhead and Joy Division. Philip thought Joy Division were a bunch of pretentious tossers. Randall argued that Philip wouldn't think that if he went to see them play live…

Every single one of them, down to a man, was currently high as a kite on either drugs or magic or a combination of the two. Talk about _Christmas spirit._

Stretching his tingling limbs languorously, Rupert accepted the joint proffered by Ethan as soon as his stirring was noticed. The room smelt of burning herbs, incense, and slightly static-y ozone. Smoky magic smells, cut through by the sweetness of the marijuana. With his magically heightened senses, Rupert could pick out the individual scents, as well as a light whiff of Deirdre's cloyingly floral perfume. It was eleven o'clock in the evening, which meant that this possession had been his longest so far. Rupert yawned, passing the joint along to Philip as Ethan waved it away. "How long was I out this time?"

"Only about a half hour since it left you. Your control is getting better."

Rupert smiled slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Who's next, then?"

The dark-featured wizard smirked. "I think it's about time Randall had a go."

The younger man shot to his feet, with a painfully eager expression on his face. "Really? Honestly?"

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Consider it our Christmas gift, mate. You did say you were ready, yeah?"

Randall clapped his hands together, sandy hair falling into his eyes. "I am, I _definitely_ am! When can we start?"

Walking over to a cabinet against the wall, Ethan retrieved a tray laden with crude tattooing supplies. He returned and set them on the coffee table, gesturing for Randall to sit between himself and Rupert on the couch. "Might as well make it midnight. Very traditional, hour of power and everything. We should get your mark started right away. Care to do the honors, Ripper?"

Rolling his shoulders, Rupert tested the steadiness of his hands. The possession could take a lot out of you, but he was growing used to the effects. He enjoyed the tattooing. It was very intimate, in a way. He had done the tattoos for Philip and Thomas. Deirdre had insisted that Ethan do hers, and Ethan rather predictably decided to do his own. "Your left arm, Randall."

The boy was shaking, from what was likely a combination of excitement and low-grade cocaine. He winced just slightly at the first prick of the needle. Rupert tried to be as gentle as possible, but he would have to be quick if everything was to be in place for the ritual and Randall marked and put to sleep by midnight. Time passed quickly as he crafted the tattoo, gripping Randall's arm to stop it trembling. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ethan gathered the items that would be needed and the others prepared the summoning circle.

Rupert felt a twinge of regret as he thought about the first time he had met Randall. Ethan had found the younger man being bullied in an establishment of extremely ill repute. It had turned out that Randall came from a family of Watchers, but hadn't tested well enough as a child to be considered for training. To boil it down into Council terms, the boy simply hadn't been 'called'. Rupert often wondered what that word actually meant. Was it about skill, cosmic alignment, fate, choice? It certainly hadn't been choice in Randall's case. His eldest brother out of three siblings, senior to Randall by a stark fifteen years, was known as quite the high achiever in Council circles. By all accounts he had passed his exams at the tender age of twenty, and had begun to ascend the ranks with great alacrity. Randall had idolized his brother, and never really got over the disappointment. As soon as he was old enough, he had fled to London to make his own way and escape the constant overhanging shadow of his brother's success and his own perceived failure.

Eventually Randall's path had led him, either by accident or design, into magical circles. He had finally gotten in over his head on the night when Ethan and Rupert had taken him in; he had been lucky to escape the demon-infested tavern with his skin fully intact. He had been shaking then, just as he was now. Rupert wondered whether perhaps Randall had been wiser back then in a sense, feeling the fear that he did. Through all the use and exploitation of magic, the rituals and the bacchanalia, the petty crime and spells cast for personal gain… Ethan's selfish philosophy of power and his habitual abuse of the black arts had imbued Randall with a sense of invincibility and robbed him of what remained of his innocence. In a far off corner of his mind, Rupert wished it hadn't turned out this way.

But no matter. Randall had finally gotten the chance to make his own choices, and he did so the only way he knew how. It was a lot like the path Rupert had chosen for himself, so who was he to judge?

"I think that's the best mark you've done yet, Ripper. Shall we both sign up for art school, then?"

Rupert scowled slightly. "Piss off, Ethan."

Randall had taken the sleeping draught, and Ethan chanted quietly with his hand on the younger man's forehead. Once they were sure he was deeply asleep, they formed a circle to begin the summoning ritual.

Bells could be heard through the slightly open window as midnight struck, ringing in Christmas day from the farthest corners of London to the Whitechapel Bell Foundry just up the street. They clanged and echoed, assaulting Rupert's senses as the dark energy snaked around them and converged on Randall's prone form. He could hear Ethan laughing and humming the tune from _Carol of the Bells_ as the demon took possession of Randall. Wooshing electric crackles permeated the air, wreathing the circle in trails of black smoke.

Eyes that used to be blue shot open, glowing green and menacing red. Randall's body lurched into an upright position, movements jerky as Eyghon wormed his presence into his host's extremities. The first sign that something was gravely wrong was the sound of bone cracking. Randall's body tried to gasp, choking as the demon within refused to give it air.

There was one moment in that interval, just a millisecond, that would haunt Rupert for the rest of his days. Eyes fixed on the ghastly visage that had supplanted Randall's features, he could see his friend looking out through the eyes of the demon. He could see Randall's abject fear. It was so brief that he could have imagined it, and then it was gone. _He_ was gone.

The voice of Eyghon rumbled ominously from deep in Randall's throat. "You bring me flesh and mind so weak, it is fit only to be cannibalized!"

The bells continued to ring as Randall's body convulsed. Rupert was oblivious to the panic around him as he watched the demon take Randall, insensible to Ethan's presence at his side, shaking him and screaming that they must perform an exorcism.

Terror, hysteria, the tolling of bells and the tearing of flesh. And then, a bloodcurdling scream.

Randall was gone before Ethan was halfway through the exorcism, dead before his broken body hit the floor.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Wow, sorry for the abrupt end to the chapter, but it seemed like the only place to stop! I hadn't originally planned to include any scenes from the Ripper days, but the characters kind of decided for me. I hope it turned out okay!

I decided to locate Ethan and Rupert's flat in Whitechapel for several reasons. My understanding is that it's quite gentrified now, but for a long time the area had rather unsavory connotations… many of which were doubtless leftover from the days when Jack the Ripper terrorized the Whitechapel slums. It was too easy to twist the lore of the notorious killer around and end up at an explanation for Giles' old nickname. I could just imagine him sitting there reading a book about Jack the Ripper and Ethan laughing at him and calling him 'Ripper'.

Speaking of 'Ripper', I made the choice to continue to refer to young Giles as 'Rupert' throughout this chapter, except where he is being addressed by someone. I guess it just didn't sound right saying 'Ripper did this, Ripper did that' when, really, he isn't a different person. When it all comes down to it, he's 'Rupert' even when he's 'Ripper' (unless he's on the band candy LOL), and probably even later on when he's 'Giles'. Part of the point of this story is to find the 'Rupert' in all these situations. If that makes any sense! :P

What else… hmm. Oh yes, the other important thing about this chapter. There's a little tidbit in there that will have bearing in the next part of the story. Namely, the bit about Randall's brother. Anyone care to hazard a guess on who that might be? No guessing if you're one of the two people I told! (points finger wildly)

If you've got any guesses, comments, questions, or anything else, please tell me about it in a review! Otherwise, Eyghon might cannibalize your weak flesh (not really)!


	6. Stairway to Heaven

Hi everyone! Wow, this story went a long time with no update. I must guiltily admit that this chapter has been sitting half-written in an open text window since… oh… January?

(cringes)

Yeah. Oh well… I won' t bother making excuses for the lateness. It's here now, and hopefully that's what counts. Getting close to the end of this particular fic- only one or two more chapters are planned. A future continuation is possible. There's some crazy dream stuff in this chapter, which I'll talk more about at the bottom of the entry if anyone is interested. ^_~

**Disclaimer: **None of the characters are owned by me, still. The chapter derives its name from the famous song 'Stairway to Heaven' by Led Zeppelin, released on the album _Led Zeppelin IV_ in November of 1971.

**Rebel Waltz  
Chapter 6: Stairway to Heaven**

_Council Headquarters, London, 26 December 1981_

On Boxing Day morning, Rupert was summoned to Council Headquarters for a series of evaluations. The tests were quite extensive; physical dexterity, proficiency with languages, psychological resilience, even common geographical knowledge… everything would be taken into consideration before a final assignment was decided. The placements were traditionally announced on the second day of the new year, which gave Council higher-ups a week after the testing to commiserate and the candidates a week in which to wear a hole in the carpet.

In some ways it was just one more Council power play. Leaving a week between the battery of tests and the decisions gave the directors a chance to watch the prospectives squirm like worms on the hook while the board of review generally sat in chambers and smoked fine cigars, referring to the process as 'deliberation'. In Rupert's case, it would come to be seen, this process of normally passive consideration would be abandoned in favor of an all out war the likes of which the Council hadn't known in decades.

First, however, he had one last assessment to endure.

Releasing an exhausted breath, Rupert slumped into a wingback chair near the fireplace. He had just been ushered into the windowless antechamber of yet another nondescript Council subdivision. Archie was with him, having served as his sponsor for this final round of examinations. "You're sure this is the last one? I feel like we've been inside this building for a fortnight."

Archibald Lassiter chuckled, standing by the fireplace and cleaning his glasses with a white handkerchief. "Yes, lad. That I can promise you. They leave this test 'til last for a good reason. Which reminds me…" Archie walked over to the sideboard at the far end of the room, retrieving an oddly shaped bundle. He held it out for Rupert. "I have another Christmas present for you."

Brows scrunching in the firelight, Rupert carefully opened the leather parcel and extracted the object inside. The contents were perplexing, to say the least. "What is it?"

Holding back a grin with some amount of effort, Archie answered. "It's a… family heirloom. Of sorts. You'll need it for the ritual that accompanies this test. I meant to give it to you the other night, but such a gift might have aroused young Olivia's suspicion. I imagine she would have though the old man had really gone off his gourd. Forgive the pun."

Rupert examined the… _gourd_, grasping it by the curved protrusion and slowly scrutinizing its bulbous body. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with it?"

Archie's mustache twitched. "Errr… shake it, I believe. It's been quite awhile since my own vision rite."

"I think I'm beginning to understand why you told me not to eat very much at Christmas dinner." The younger man glowered, shaking the gourd contemptuously and trying to wrap his mind around what other possible humiliations could be involved in such a ceremony.

Before the Scotsman could reply, a smartly dressed attendant entered the room carrying a fully laden tea tray. She laid it on the sideboard wordlessly and left the room as quietly as she had entered. "Ah, here we are. You'll have some tea, Rupert?"

Leaning back in the chair, Rupert ran a hand through his hair in a non-committal gesture. "I'd rather a Scotch."

Fixing the cup of tea with steady hands, features turned away from Rupert's view, Archie tut-tutted. "Now now. You're nearly through. One last test and after it is done I shall furnish you with more Scotch than you can shake your gourd at."

Rupert scowled.

Archie turned and casually handed the cup and saucer to the younger man. "Here. Just as you like it."

An odd smell wafted up from the tea as Rupert accepted it. He cringed slightly. "Interesting blend."

"Proprietary, I imagine."

"Well, I hope it doesn't taste as strange as it smells."

Rupert sipped the tea, finding that the warmth and relaxation it imparted easily trumped his reservations about the unusual scent. The cup seemed to be empty in mere seconds, but he was vaguely aware that it must have been longer. Archie was looking at him strangely, and he felt a tingling sensation beginning at the base of his spine.

Time in the darkened room seemed to expand and contract, wheeling past Rupert's vision as his gaze became drawn to the fire. Archie had disappeared from sight, a fact that barely registered with the young Watcher as he stared into the flames, transfixed. His limbs buzzed pleasantly, highly sensitized. He felt like he was floating, drifting through the ether, traveling outside of himself and into the fire's warm and smoky embrace.

The teacup and saucer tumbled from Rupert's hands as he slumped forward, making barely a sound as they dropped to the carpeted floor. As his eyes drifted shut, he saw a figure emerge from the shadow in the corner of the room. The man wore robes of burgundy and gray, perfectly camouflaged against the fire-lit backdrop of the chamber. He practically melted into the walls. Distantly, Rupert could hear the unfamiliar voice of the figure chanting in Latin. He felt as though he himself were melting.

The buzzing sensation sharpened and Rupert released a pained gasp, falling to the floor in front of the fire. His arms and legs squirmed momentarily and then were still. Rupert tried to open his eyes, but found that they were heavier than lead. Dismayed, he gave himself over to the pleasurable floating feeling and the excruciating uproar of sensation creeping along his brain stem. He looked like he was sleeping. His vision rite had begun.

Archibald Lassiter frowned sadly, standing a few feet away from the Council's chief seer. "I hope he won't be too angry. I refused to speak to his gran for two years after she administered the herbs at my rite."

The seer was quiet for a long moment before replying. "He will understand. It is not a choice. What he sees will shape his future."

"Yes. But giving the drugs without consent seems so… barbaric. And tricking him into shaking that stupid gourd made me feel quite silly."

"The old ways must be observed. There is nothing remotely amusing about this ritual, Archibald." The seer fixed him with a piercing glare. "You know you must leave us."

Scratching the curled gray hairs at the back of his neck, Archie sighed. "Yes, I realize that." All the while his eyes were fixed upon the prone form of Rupert Giles on the carpet before the fire, looking deceptively peaceful in spite of the tumult which was likely erupting inside of his unconscious mind. Backing out of the room with great reluctance, Archie hoped that his young charge would be safe, that his past psychological traumas would not come to visit their wrath upon Rupert during the vision rite.

Archie pondered, shutting the door to the chamber with an air of trepidation. He wondered what the young man would see, how it would change his life, what ends of the Earth Rupert's mind might fly to.

And he hoped, with a characteristically stout-hearted determination, that Rupert would someday forgive him for this breach of trust.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_Inside of Rupert's Mind_

As he came to awareness, Rupert noticed several things. First of all, this was not Council Headquarters. The next thing that occurred to him was that he was laying face down on a patch of what appeared to be dry, scorched, and extremely warm earth. As he pushed himself upright, he frowned in confusion at the cracked and dusty ground beneath his hands. Rupert's attire was also a matter of some interest. The rather smart jacket and tie that he had been wearing were nowhere to be seen; he found himself clad in faded jeans, a well worn pair of boots, and a plain white t-shirt. As much as the suit had made Rupert squirm, he was nevertheless perplexed by his current state of dress. These were the clothes he was most comfortable in. Perhaps his garb was indicative of the elemental nature of his surroundings? He flexed his fingers as he stood, somewhat unsteadily, noticing that the gold and onyx ring that he had worn since his father's death was still in place.

His body felt remarkably light, as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his limbs. Either that, or the heaviness bestowed upon him by the stealthily administered herbs did not translate to this plane of existence. Rupert squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the surprising brightness around him. What a plane of existence it was. From the look of things, Rupert had awakened at the edge of a desert landscape. His mind dimly recognized this area as 'south'. Turning away from the sun-burnished area, Rupert took in the rest of his surroundings. Ahead of him was an expanse of snow and mountains, 'north'. To his right, the 'east', grassy plains and fields of sunflowers as far as his minds' eye could see. And lastly there was 'west', a deep forest full of ancient trees, dark and cool and forbidding.

_Choose a direction._

A voice inside his head- perhaps it was his own voice, perhaps not- was telling Rupert to choose, and he had already begun the process even without further prompting. The north was out; his dream self clearly wasn't clothed or properly equipped to handle snowy and mountainous terrain. As much as he appreciated the vital warmth and crisp definition of the desert, Rupert knew he couldn't choose south either. There was nothing new for him there, just cracked earth and tumbleweeds. The east, with its pastoral beauty and gently swaying grasses, was tempting. Something nagged at the edge of Rupert's consciousness, however. He found his gaze inextricably drawn to the west, wondering what might lie within the depths of the forest. And so, the choice was made.

The temperature took a deep drop as Rupert made his way beneath the first overhanging branches of the wood, sunlight peeking playfully through the rustling leaves. The earth below his feet was soft and dark, punctuated by mossy rocks and the occasional wandering tree root. There was something odd about the forest, and eventually Rupert realized that many of the sounds of nature were absent. There was no evidence of animals or birds, just the pure earthbound noises of the breeze and the distant babbling of a brook or stream.

Traveling further into the forest, Rupert shivered slightly as the trees became denser, their shadows blocking out the sun. He walked slowly for long minutes, sensing the continual need to move forward. Looking further ahead, he thought he could see a clearing, green and bright with a shaft of white-golden light shining down. Rupert looked up curiously as he reached the break in the trees. The sky rang clear blue through the round gap in the treetops, leaves sparkling jade and small flowers and growing things in the underbrush stretching toward the sun.

At the far end of the clearing was an odd structure. Rupert moved toward it, gradually approaching the series of crumbling stone pillars. The pillars were set in a semi-circle, crawling vines of bright emerald winding up and around them. Between the last two pillars was a weathered stone staircase, rising with the gradient of the steep hill behind, cutting through the face of the cliff that rose beyond, leading up and up… to where? Rupert couldn't see an end to the ascent. It continued between the walls of stone, through the treetops, seeming to climb right up into the sky itself.

"Hello, Rupert."

Rupert jumped back, startled by the greeting. He had not perceived any visitor, having been too busy contemplating the long-stretching stairway leading out from the heart of the forest. Seated near the bottom of the staircase was a form, clad all in white robes and seemingly lit from within. It was a man, or at least it was shaped like one. Blue eyes peered out knowingly from beneath a fringe of sandy blond hair. This man, this _creature_ or whatever it was, had Randall's face. Only… the expression was so much more serious, wiser and more solemn, than any he had seen upon his lost friend before. Taking a step back, he regarded the figure with trepidation.

"Yes, it's me. It's Randall. Don't be afraid, I won't harm you. I'm here to help you along. Come, sit." The white-robed figure smiled somewhat sadly, motioning for Rupert to come closer.

Approaching slowly, Rupert looked at Randall's glowing pale face in astonishment. "But… how can you be here? You-"

"-died?" Randall released a small chuckle. "Yes, I died. But this is not the living world. We are inside your mind, and in this landscape I will always exist- unless you forget me, of course."

Rupert reached out instinctively, as if to touch Randall and prove his existence. Realizing that his dead friend's degree of corporeality would prove nothing, not here and not now, he drew his hand back. "That will never happen, Randall. How could I ever forget?"

"I can still feel your guilt, Rupert. Perhaps, if anything, you will eventually leave that behind?"

Frowning, the young Watcher sat on one of the steps. "We _killed_ you, Randall, Ethan and I! How can I ever forgive myself for that?"

Randall shook his head. "No, Rupert. Eyghon killed me. You shouldn't seek forgiveness where the burden of blame isn't yours."

"We were responsible. I gave you the mark, for fuck's sake!" Rupert squeezed his eyes shut, assaulted by the memory and unable to wipe the images from the back of his eyelids even here in the dream world.

"Ethan doesn't blame himself. Why should you?"

Laughing darkly, Rupert fixed his gaze upon the Randall-shaped apparition. "That's because he's _Ethan_. It's not the same."

Smiling, Randall quirked an eyebrow. "No, it_ isn't _the same. Don't you understand? That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you!"

Leaning back against the cool stone, Rupert was silent for a few moments. The circular logic was making his head spin, and he was far from comprehending what any of these visions were supposed to mean. "So tell me, then. Why are you here? What is it I'm supposed to understand?"

The ghostly blue eyes blinked slowly, regarding Rupert with infinite patience. "You already know most of the answers. You have seen them in your dreams. All that's left is for you to put together the pieces of the puzzle. It's fate and it's magic and it's what's inside your heart. You can't rein in the magic forever, Rupert. It is too strong. And contrary to what you may believe right now, your power is not inherently evil. You will need it before the end, and _she_ will need _you_."

Rupert's mind reeled. He couldn't mean… "_She_…?"

"You know who I mean. The girl- the _warrior_ from your dreams." Randall's hand shot out, grasping Rupert's forehead with his thumb and pinky finger at the temples. Images suddenly assaulted him, so vivid he felt like screaming. Maybe he _was_ screaming. Screaming, crying, laughing… Rupert didn't know _what_ was happening to him.

He saw a girl who could barely be sixteen, recoiling as an older version of himself offered her a thick and cumbersome book.

He saw her in a dress, torn and soiled, expression fierce as she faced down an ancient and powerful foe.

He saw himself, _so much older and more careworn, _swinging a flaming baseball bat with a look of ragged desperation on his face.

He saw people frowning at each other, crying, people he knew must be his friends.

He saw a man transform into a giant snake, and felt the promise of all-consuming flames.

He saw himself falling down drunk, watched with contempt and disappointment by the young ones who looked up to him.

He saw a version of himself, embracing the warrior girl, comforting her as she cried with the specter of death hanging over them.

He saw his friends racing around helplessly on the ground as something terrible happened up above on the tower, overcome with helplessness.

He saw and felt the power coursing through his flesh and his nerves as he returned from afar to face the evil which threatened them all.

He saw himself arguing with the one he loved the most, the girl with the golden hair, hope and confidence crumbling bitterly in the wake of their misunderstanding.

And he saw it all crashing down, collapsing into dusty nothingness as they fled, not knowing in that moment if they would survive or it anything would ever be alright again.

Gasping for breath as he regained awareness, Rupert's body tensed. His wide-eyed gaze rested upon Randall's hand, which looked ever so harmless resting upon his white clad knee. "What… what _was_ that?"

Randall smiled gravely. "These are events from your future. I am not allowed to tell you when or why these things may happen, in what order or for what reason, but know that they will."

"Why are you showing me this? These things are terrible… are they meant as my punishment? And… how… how can I stop them from happening?"

Feeling a strange coolness upon his cheek, Rupert reached up and was surprised to find tears dripping down his face. These people… the ones from his dreams and _especially_ the mysterious Slayer… would he destroy their lives as he had done his own, lead them to death as he had done to Randall?

"I know what you're thinking, Rupert, and you are wrong yet again. The suffering that you see is inconsequential against the good that will result. You must always understand: good cannot exist without evil, just as white cannot exist without black. If these regrettable incidents do not occur, you will never know joy like this!"

Again, Randall grasped Rupert's face, this time with both hands. The images that followed were imbued with a warm glow, euphoria tingling at the edge of Rupert's consciousness as he watched it all unfold.

He saw himself carrying the Slayer, laying her down and using his magic for the first time in _ever so long_ just to save her.

He saw a dark haired woman, Mexican food and margaritas, joy and laughter that was as authentic as it was fleeting.

He saw his hand brushing against that of the warrior-child, being slapped joyfully away as they both reached for the last jelly doughnut.

He saw all of them laughing, sitting at a table in what appeared to be a library, the dark haired boy and the red-haired girl at the Slayer's side.

He saw her again, resplendent in a formal dress, spinning a small and glittering umbrella in her hands and giving him a look that melted what was left of his heart.

He saw them smiling at each other, her lips quirking and him in a truly _horrible shirt_, and he felt at that moment that no one had ever understood him better.

He saw them training, felt the force of her blows as he directed her, how proud- and how reassured- he felt as she focused and improved.

He saw himself in a suit, looking far more comfortable than he felt in one as a younger man, engaging in workplace banter with a very unusual and stubborn young woman.

He saw the laughter that lit his life behind the scenes even at the gravest of times- a moment with the Slayer where all was well, leaning against a pommel horse and _laughing_.

And last but not least, he saw the smile on her face, which mirrored the joy in his heart, as they stood at the edge of destruction and realized that they were still meant to _live._

Rupert couldn't help but smile as Randall gently released him, feeling the ecstatic force of the visions like an afterimage at the base of every cell in his unearthly body.

Some moments passed without words, Rupert gradually calming down and Randall remaining still and contemplative. The glowing figure's smile was true, though the look in his eyes was uncompromisingly stern. "The Powers have spoken. Now, Rupert, do you understand?"

Lip quirking just slightly, the young Giles bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I believe I do. But there is one thing I want to ask…"

"I will answer if I can."

His green eyes questioning, twinkling as they looked toward the sky, Rupert smiled knowingly. "Randall… exactly where does that staircase lead?"

Randall stood, knowing that his task was at an end. "You may find out someday, Rupert. And yet again, you may not. I can tell by the way you are grinning that you already understand this. The future is never set in stone, and there will be many times when you must choose your own path."

The white-robed form began to ascend the staircase, pausing just within sight to regard his friend one last time. "Just remember- the world is awash with consequences, and the best decision isn't always the right one. If we are both very lucky, someday we shall meet each other again."

Rupert nodded, feeling sorrow as he watched his dead friend climb toward the edge of the clear blue sky, filled at the same time with wonder and amazement as he contemplated the scope and the profound complexity of his future… of a possible future, anyway. He knew now that his dreams had not been the stuff of madness, and that his path as a Watcher was not chosen in vain. He wasn't sure how he would get there, or what would happen on the road in between. What he did know was that she would be waiting, and that every moment of his life from now must be dedicated to her safety and their fight against the darkness.

Gathering his thoughts, Rupert rose from the weathered stone step and let the cool forest air comfort him. Lucid now, at the end of his vision rite, he knew he would wake soon enough. And on the other side of consciousness the real world waited.

Rupert Giles, Watcher newly reborn, was ready to face it.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
xxxxxxxxxx**

Yes, another chapter done! (sighs in relief) Hmm, I hope someone out there is still interested in this story- it is one of my favorites, and I feel terrible for neglecting it for so long.

Concerning Rupert's dream/vision, I tried to do some research into dream interpretation, lucid dreaming, divination, and so on… but it got frustrating. I got tired of reading things like, "The direction 'west' may symbolize a positive life change and a desire to move forward, or it may represent DEATH!" (facepalm) Seriously? It's all extremely wooly, so don't read too much into it. I took a few cues from what I read online, more than a few hints from Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway to Heaven', and the rest I just blatantly made up. Cool?

Reviews will be greeted with Jammie Dodgers and auto parts. Why are you looking at me like that? I received both these items in the same Amazon box today, so they can't be THAT unusual… can they? ;)


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